


Run Away Like Outlaws

by Kayim



Category: DCU, Marvel Avengers Movies Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-28
Updated: 2012-05-28
Packaged: 2017-11-06 04:44:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/414825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kayim/pseuds/Kayim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They grew up together in Haley's circus, with no one but each other to rely on.  Now in their twenties, they can't help but wonder if they should be following a different path.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Run Away Like Outlaws

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Siluria, as always, and to Merfilly. 
> 
> This fic was written solely because I wanted to see these two boys together. This wasn't the story I imagined for them, for a number of reasons, but when I started writing, it felt right.
> 
> The title comes from the song "Gypsy Love" by Jack Savoretti. If you want to know how I feel about this pairing - listen to that song.
> 
> The stunningly beautiful header graphic was made by Siluria, who somehow managed to peek into my mind and extract exactly what I was hoping for xx

  


"We should get away for the weekend," Dick called down from the trapeze swing. Clint stood below him, watching the way his partner's body twisted and stretched with each swing. He never grew tired of watching him and would often sneak out to sit in the audience during one of Dick's performances. 

Clint followed the movement of Dick's body with his arrow and focused his aim. The arrow was soft tipped, designed to bruise rather than pierce, and he was doing his best to hit the fast moving figure. Anticipating Dick's next move – a double somersault over to the second swing – he loosed the arrow and let it fly. 

They used this as their own form of training. Clint would try to hit the fast-moving acrobat, while Dick tried to avoid being hit by the marksman. It tended to result in a lot of bruises across Dick's body, but in the past twelve months he'd learned to disguise his intended actions better. Clint usually missed him once per training session now.

At the last moment, Dick forced a slight change in his momentum, switching to a backwards somersault. The arrow caught his ankle instead of his chest, but he still cursed at the sudden pain.

"Nice move," Clint called back. "You almost avoided that one completely."

"Not completely enough." 

Dick swung himself upside down, hooking his knees over the trapeze bar and reached down to rub his ankle where the dark colored bruise was already starting to form. His hair was getting longer again and while Clint loved the way it looked, he should probably encourage him to get it cut. Dick shrugged, which looked completely ridiculous from Clint's point of view. 

"I'll kiss it better later. So anyway," Clint returned to the previous conversation as though he hadn't just shot him. "Where did you want to go? We're a million miles from any form of actual civilization this time. Unless you count the undeniable attraction of 'Uncle Joe's Bar n Grill'. Which I don't."

"I don't know. We could just drive somewhere. I just...." Dick's voice trailed off as he reached up for the bar and flipped himself the right way up.

Clint knew what he meant though. Something had been bugging Dick recently - a want, a desire, a need to do more with his life. He kept insisting that despite being twenty-two, with his whole life supposedly ahead of him, he couldn't see anything more than this same big top, with the same people, doing the exact same thing.

While Clint didn't feel that way – the circus was all he knew and it fed, clothed and housed him, which was all he needed – he also knew that his life was wherever Dick's was. If Dick wanted to leave and go somewhere else, Clint would go with him, no questions asked. 

Releasing the trapeze bar, Dick somersaulted onto the catch net, bouncing once before flipping himself over the edge. He didn't miss a beat, timing every movement perfectly and landing on his feet in front of Clint.

He reached his hand out and placed it on Clint's arm. "Let's just get out of here. Please?" 

Since the time they were twelve and they realized it was just them against the world, Clint had been unable to resist _that_ look. The one where Dick's eyes grew wide and pleading, where he seemed to be offering his whole heart on a plate. The rest of the circus assumed that it was Clint who made the decisions in their relationship, with him being the louder, brash one. There weren't many people who understood the quiet hold Dick had on him. 

He gave a mock sigh, knowing when he was beaten, and leaned in for a kiss. "Go put some proper clothes on. I'll get the truck started."

*

Clint's truck was one of his most prized possessions, coming second only to his bow. Both of them had been given to him by Barney, his older brother, as leaving gifts, albeit on different occasions.

"You're far more skilled with that thing than I am," he'd said of the bow. Even at twelve, Clint had known that Barney was painfully jealous of the fact. That was the first time Barney had left, and had Clint not had Dick with him, he would have run away then. 

Barney came back the year Clint and Dick turned sixteen. He'd stayed for less than a month, leaving in a hurry when Mr. Haley discovered he'd been helping himself to the takings from the admissions. Barney hadn't so much given the truck to Clint, more abandoned it when he ran from the shotgun Mr. Haley had pointed at him, but Clint decided it was rightfully his anyway. 

"So which way?" Clint asked as Dick slid into the passenger seat, kicking off his boots and putting his feet up on the dashboard. He'd changed into a pair of denim jeans, old and soft enough that they molded themselves to his legs, and a t-shirt in a shade of blue that was almost exactly the same as his eyes.

Dick shrugged. "Left?"

"Left it is."

The cassette player in the truck was older than either of the boys, but it still played the classic rock they both loved, even if the bass wasn't quite as defined as it should be, and there was an occasional crackle that shouldn't be there. 

The roads were quiet and Dick shuffled himself over so he was pressed up against Clint's side, his long legs still stretched out on the dash. Clint reached his arm out along the back of the seat, his fingers teasing the dark curls at Dick's neck. 

"Yeah, I know it needs cutting," Dick sighed. 

Clint considered all the reasons why he should agree. "Nah, leave it," he said in the end. "I like it."

Clint kept one hand on the wheel, while the other rested on Dick's shoulder, gently holding him close. Sometimes a song came on the stereo that had Clint singing along, his fingers tapping in time to the music, but other than that they didn't talk. The silence was comfortable though, born of years of friendship, and after a while Dick's breathing slowed down enough that Clint knew he'd fallen asleep.

He glanced away from the road for a moment to look at the sleeping man next to him. Long, dark lashes, mouth slightly open, his tongue pressing against his perfectly white teeth. Clint wondered how he'd gotten so lucky, before turning back to the road.

It was a couple of hours before Dick woke up, stretching and pulling himself away from where he'd been plastered against Clint's body. 

"Any chance we can stop for some food?" Dick yawned, reaching down to recover his boots.

Clint bit back a sigh at the loss of Dick's warmth next to him. He didn’t like to admit how right it felt to have Dick's body against his, afraid it would somehow jinx them. Dick never seemed to have any problems with saying the words out loud, but Clint learned a long time ago that some things were better kept hidden.

"We just passed a sign for a roadside diner. Should be in a couple of miles." 

"Sounds good," Dick replied. He tied the laces on his boots and edged himself back towards Clint's side of the truck. Although he wasn't quite leaning against him this time, he still reached out his hand and let it rest on Clint's thigh.

The diner looked like something out of a comic book. The red, white and blue awning fluttered in the breeze outside the metallic framed building, while a handful of cars were parked in front. The rusted sign planted in the dirt advertised 'the best pie in the state' with a crudely drawn picture of what Clint suspected was supposed to be a slice of pie, but looked more like a child's depiction of a mountain.

Clint pulled the truck to a stop beside a large black SUV with tinted windows.

"Pie?" Dick asked as he opened the door and climbed out of the truck. "I bet it's not as good as that one..."

"... Josef brought us back when we were in Kansas City that time? Oh god, that was perfect." Clint's mouth started to water at the memory. No one had plucked up the courage to ask the strongman where he'd got the pie from, but he'd happily shared it with as many people as he could. A thick, buttery crust. Strawberries and rhubarb, still warm. It was possibly the single most delicious thing any of them had eaten.

Dick walked around to Clint's side of the truck, leaning against the hood as Clint locked up. He smiled, his blue eyes shining brightly. "Haley's has been good to us, hasn't it?" There was a tone in his voice that Clint didn't recognize, a nostalgia or wistfulness that he'd not seen before, and despite the smile on Dick's face, it felt as though something was wrong.

"What?" He had to fight back the urge to step forward and pull Dick into his arms. While most of the people in the circus had no problems with public displays of affection – no matter who they were between – he wasn't naive enough to think that the whole world would be okay with it.

"I'm not sure. I just feel like we're at a crossroads. Too many decisions to make. Things are changing."

Clint felt his heart thump in his chest and his hands clenched into fists at his side.

"Oh god, you idiot," Dick said. He ignored the faces watching them from the window of the diner and pulled Clint towards him until they were nose to nose. "Not you and me. That's never changing."

Clint relaxed his hands, sliding them onto Dick's hips, the familiarity comforting him almost as much as the words had. He leaned closer, resting his head on Dick's shoulder, allowing himself to forget everything else.

"I meant the circus. Haley. Hell, I don't know what I mean. Ignore me. Let's get pie."

Reluctantly, Clint pulled away from Dick, separating their bodies slowly, his hand lingering on Dick's hip. "I think we've got an audience," Dick muttered, looking over Clint's shoulder.

_In for a penny, in for a pound_ , Clint thought to himself, and leaned in to kiss Dick, sliding his other hand up Dick's arm and around the back of his neck, letting his fingers tangle in the curls he loved so much. 

The sound of Clint's stomach rumbling interrupted the moment, causing them to pull apart, laughing. 

"Pie?" Clint asked, repeating Dick's question from earlier.

"Pie," Dick agreed with a smile. 

Despite the few cars outside, the diner was busy, presumably with people clamoring for the greatest pie in the state. Dick led the way to a table on the far side, seemingly oblivious to the looks the two of them were getting from the other occupants. Clint walked behind him, his eyes darting from one side to the other, making a mental note of every person there. None of them appeared to be a threat, looking more intrigued by them than angry or horrified – which was a better result than he'd imagined – but he wasn't quite ready to let his guard down yet. 

Dick slid into the nearest seat, allowing Clint to sit opposite with his back to the wall. It was an automatic gesture, the same as the way Clint always slept closest to the door, and always woke first in the mornings. They'd never discussed it, but they both knew what Clint was doing. 

"Can I get you anything, boys?" The waitress – Louisa, according to her nametag – was in her fifties at least, but had the bleached blond hair and too-tight outfit that would be more suited to a woman twenty years younger. She chewed on the end of her pen as she waited to take their order.

As usual, it was Dick who spoke for them both. "I hear you've got the best pie in the state," he said, a flirtatious smile on his lips that sent a shiver down Clint's spine even though it wasn't aimed at him. "We'd like two pieces of whichever one is your favorite. One with whipped cream and one with ice cream."

Louisa smiled back at him, scribbling in her worn notebook. "Two slices of cherry pie coming up." She pulled out two forks from the front pocket of her apron and placed one in front of each of them.

Clint watched as she scurried away, his eyes following her down the length of the diner. 

"Cherry sounds good, doesn't it?" Dick asked, but Clint hardly heard him. At the far end, two men had just walked in through the door. Mid-thirties, maybe, heavy-set, but wearing clothes that were too bulky in the warm weather. 

"Uh huh," Clint replied, his eyes still fixed on the newcomers. 

Dick leaned forward, knowing better than to turn around. "Trouble?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. Growing up in the circus, they'd become used to a certain amount of prejudice that followed them around. Less than a month earlier, one of the clowns had ended up with a broken nose and a black eye in an encounter after a show.

Before Clint could reply, the taller of the two men stepped up to the counter and pulled out a sawn-off shotgun, pointing it directly at Louisa. "Hand over all your cash now," he demanded, even as his friend spun around, waving a handgun randomly around at the rest of the customers. 

"No one try anything stupid," the second man shouted, his eyes wide and wild. He pointed his gun – a six shot revolver, Clint noted – at the nearest person, an elderly woman who was sitting at the counter with a slice of pie. 

"Don't." Dick shook his head, but Clint was already calculating the distances between him and each of the men, picking up the two forks in front of him, one in each hand. 

Clint shrugged. "Sorry," he whispered back, before standing up.

"How about you pick on someone your own size?" he shouted across the diner, his voice loud and echoing around the walls. Both men spun around, aiming their guns directly at him. He wished he had his bow with him, but it was locked in the truck outside. Instead, all he had was a couple of slightly bent forks and an uncannily good aim.

"You got a death wish or something, punk?" Shotgun Guy hollered back, striding towards him. 

_Just a little closer_ , Clint thought to himself, balancing the forks in his hands, judging the exact weights of them. _Just another three steps._

But the guy stopped just out of range.

Clint was about to throw a random taunt out, in the hopes of bringing the guy towards him, but Dick stood up and turned around before he could speak. 

"You nice guys don't really want any trouble, do you?" Dick asked. Clint noticed Dick had toed off his shoes under the table and was flexing his wrists as he spoke. "How about you just head on out of here and we'll forget this ever happened."

Without waiting for a response, Dick stepped out from his seat and stepped directly into Shotgun Guy's line of sight. He glanced once at Clint, nodding almost imperceptibly, and turned his attention back to the gunman. 

The change in the man's position was enough to warn both Clint and Dick that he was about to fire. Dick leapt smoothly to one side, while Clint jumped up onto the table, cursing as it wobbled slightly beneath his weight. The shotgun blast missed them both, hitting the back wall of the diner.

Dick was running towards Shotgun Guy before he even realized that he'd missed. Using one of the stools that lined the counter for leverage, Dick somersaulted twice, once onto the counter in front of the man, and then once off again, over his head. He landed less than a foot behind him.

Clint used his position on the table to get a better aim at the second man. He flicked one fork, spinning it like a knife, embedding it in Revolver Guy's hand. The second fork followed suit, this time landing in the man's thigh. The gun clattered to then floor a split second before the man himself did.

Shotgun Guy spun around, searched for his target. Dick crouched down, sweeping his foot in a perfect semi-circle, clipping the man's ankles enough that he lost his balance, joining his companion on the floor. 

Clint picked up the revolver, quickly releasing the cylinder and tipping the bullets into his hand. Dick, a lot less proficient with guns than his partner, used his foot to slide the shotgun across the floor.

Both guys were on the floor, Dick's foot pressing against the throat of Shotgun Guy, while Revolver Guy was clutching his thigh and sobbing.

"Does someone want to call the cops or something?" Clint called out, not taking his eyes off the two men. 

One of the other customers stood up, an older man in a plain black suit that Clint hadn't even noticed. "They're on their way," he said, tucking a cell phone back into his pocket. "But I think I'm going to head out of here before they arrive."

He pulled a small white business card out of his pocket and handed it to Clint. "The two of you ever feel like a change of career, you give me a call."

The man didn't wait for a reply, heading out of the diner and into the black SUV parked next to Clint's truck, pulling away as the sound of sirens came into hearing.

Clint looked down at the business card. It contained just a name and a cell phone number. Philip Coulson. 

He was breathing hard, and Clint felt the adrenaline rushing through his body, moreso than he had felt in the circus for a long time. He glanced over at Dick, who smiled at him, and he knew he wasn't the only one feeling that way. 

He moved to stand next to Dick, handing over the small piece of card. "You know that crossroads you felt was coming?" he said, reaching out to brush a stray curl of hair from Dick's face. "I think we just got offered a new direction to head in."


End file.
